


Necessary

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Corporal Punishment, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Safe and Consensual But Possibly Not Sane, Violence, not actually sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 06:43:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13518678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: Fraser ties Ray down and hits him with a belt, for reasons.





	Necessary

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what to say about the angst/hope ratio on this one, or how to summarize... Also, I'm making no claims to realism, here. :)

Ray’s already shivering as Fraser ties him down.  He tries to control it, but of course, tensing up only makes it worse.  More noticeable, and it’s a sure bet Fraser notices.  He pauses to lay a hand on Ray’s shoulder—to check on him, or reassure him, or both, it doesn’t matter.  Ray pretends not to notice, just holds as still as he can, and after a second, Fraser takes his hand away and ties Ray’s other hand to the hook they mounted to the wall (because who the hell has a bedpost these days?).

He wraps Ray’s fingers around the leather strap with the row of bells, because of course Fraser wouldn’t do something like this without all the proper safety precautions, and because he knows that Ray probably wouldn’t be able to actually say the safeword if he needed to.  Again, doesn’t really matter, because Ray isn’t going to tap out of this in any case, which he hasn’t told Fraser, because Fraser wants safe, sane, and consensual, even though sex is the last thing this is about.  Fraser probably knows that, too, but either he’s okay pretending that Ray’s going to be reasonable, or he thinks that when push comes to shove, Ray will—that Ray is—

“Ready?” Fraser asks, his voice so calm, so steady, like this is just a piece of business to him, but Ray knows him, just like Fraser knows Ray, and Ray can hear the echoes underneath: worry, and determination and love.

“Do it.”  Ray’s voice comes out breathy and squeaky, damn it. 

But Fraser doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask if he’s okay, if he’s sure.  Fraser just says, cool and implacable as ice, “Count them.”

“One,” Ray says immediately, and Fraser’s belt cracks down on his bare ass.  He yelps, even though he knew it was coming, and it didn’t even hurt that much, this is just the start, Jesus.

“Two,” he snaps, then presses his lips together as hard as he can.  This time he’s ready for the bright shock of pain, and he takes it silently, takes Three and Four, too, but Five catches him where he’s already tender, and he instinctively tries to twist away, and then he can’t stop struggling, fighting the ropes even though all it does is scrape his wrists raw, even though that hurts more than the blows that keep coming as he calls them: Ten, Eleven, Twelve.

His ass is burning all over now, and each new smack feels like salt in a wound.  He can’t catch his breath all the way, he’s breathing all ragged, whimpering on the exhale, can’t swallow the sound—stupid, _stupid_ fucking bullshit, because this is _nothing_ , barely more than a slap, if he were in the ring or in the street, he’d laugh it off, right before pasting the idiot into the ground.  Hell, he took worse than this on the fucking _playground_ in junior high, like, every other week.

“Ray?”

Shit, he stopped counting and now Fraser’s worried if he’s okay.  Like Ray’s going to fall apart from a stupid _spanking,_ that’s all this is.  He has to—what number was he on?

“Nine—Twenty,” he gasps out.  His voice cracks wetly, just to make this even more humiliating.

But Fraser, God bless him, sticks to the deal, takes Ray at his word, and gives him a lash that feels like it’ll leave a welt.

He chokes on a sob, yanking blindly on the ropes.  Wrists on fire, ass on fire, how can this fucking hurt so—“Twenty-one”—and another stinging stripe that makes him yell, but—“Twenty-two!”

Fraser wouldn’t yell.  Fraser wouldn’t make a peep.  He’d just take it in silence, he’d never break, he’d never tell—

 _Vecchio,_ he chants to himself, the backbeat to the numbers he forces past his clenched teeth, to the crack of the belt, to his own sobbing.  _Vecchio, I’m Ray Vecchio, I don’t know what you’re talking about, there’s nobody else, just me._

The fire’s spreading down his arms as his muscles start to cramp from the useless flailing, the pillow’s wet with tears and snot, his face is too, and he can’t—he has to hang on, but the pain’s got its claws in him, now, he can’t think about anything else, and that’s bad, that’ll do him in.

 _You don’t have to do this,_ he imagines Fraser saying—remembers him saying, before they started, like he always does—and, _You can stop any time you want to_ —which is true, and it’s so fucking tempting to just throw in the towel, but not yet, _not yet_ , he’s just got to hang on a little longer, make it to Forty, that was the deal, then he’ll be done, then it can stop.

Soon.  Soon.  Soon it’ll be over.  And then. . .then. . .

Fraser will untie him, ice his aching ass and throbbing wrists, take the pain away.  Fraser will give him a washcloth to wipe his face, and he’ll lay his big, warm palm between Ray’s shoulderblades until Ray stops shaking.  Fraser will be proud of him.

“Thirty-five,” he whispers, curling his fingers around the bells and the rope as the belt comes down.


End file.
